


Nobody Knows

by Dewdropzz



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 02:19:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5272886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dewdropzz/pseuds/Dewdropzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is it selfish to want just a bit of recognition? Is it too much to ask for just one person to believe in him? Jack Frost is just a myth, they say. An expression to scare kids into putting on hats and scarves, so that "Jack Frost doesn't nip at your nose."  He couldn't nip a nose even if he wanted to! The humans go right through him. He's utterly invisible to them. He's a ghost... They can't feel him, only the cold he stirs up when he passes by. They can't hear him, only the wind that brings him to them, and they can't see him, or anything except the snow he creates with his frosty magic. And yet, he can still see them..."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody Knows

Snowflakes, white crystals, shreds of stars from a black sky float gently, so softly, so slowly down to the earth. The earth is frozen below — not frozen from snow, but from the dead of a cold, dry winter. An arctic breeze blows through baron trees, skimming over brown grass that is matted down with ice from an earlier frigid rain. And the houses look so forlorn, frostbitten and dejected in a winter wasteland. On the front porch of the last house on the street is a plastic toy that shines of bright red — a little toboggan that sits by itself, earnestly, hopefully, waiting patiently for the day to arrive when this grey curse will lift from this tiny town — this limbo between fall and spring that does not resemble a proper winter. No place where children live should look as somber as this place. He got here just on time, he thinks, and the snowflakes continue to tumble gently, so softly, so slowly down to the earth. No, this won't do. It's nearly dawn, and the world will be waking up soon. He needs this place to be covered by morning. 

He raises his staff high in the air, and begins to run in circles, swinging it, wielding it like a sword. He prances and dances merrily under the black sky turning indigo, and his bare feet move frantically, with all the clumsy grace of a child, across the hard ground. The snow begins to fall much faster, much harder, in great flakes that look like the stars and the moon and the planets themselves, raining down from the heavens. He laughs as the hard ground beneath his feet starts to turn soft with blankets of snow. But blankets aren't good enough. He needs pillows, fluffy cloud-like mounds, huge mountains for the children to climb on. He's very careful in performing this delicate task. With immense precision, he dictates the exact amount of snow that will fall in each area of town. Of course, it can't all land evenly. The townspeople would be up to their waists in the frozen particles, and that would be miserable to walk in, and suck the big one to shovel — not to mention it could cause injury. No, there have to be pathways. The roads and pavement get it lighter, like sparkling white dust that's easy to walk in, and not a pain in the neck to shovel. On the grass, however, it'll be a little harder to get rid of... The humans call this science, something about albedo; a natural phenomenon. He calls it his masterpiece. Snow arranging is an art form, and he's the best artist in the genre.

Some snowdrifts will look nice in this town, he thinks. Always a favourite of the little ones, who like to burrow into them headfirst and make tunnels like snow hares. The humans think the wind causes the snow to settle in drifts, which it does. But how do they think the wind does it with such style, such immaculate form?This is an artist's responsibility. There need to be frost patterns on the trees, the windshields of cars, and the windows of homes. Frost patterns are his specialty. With icy tendrils and curlycues, he can create pictures more beautiful than a stained glass window. He takes a brief fly by to make sure everything is just right, and as the indigo sky turns to gold, to light blue, he makes his perch on a hydro pole which turns frosty from his touch, and waits outside the last little house on the street, where the toboggan sits patiently on the front step. After a moment, a small, pajama-clad figure appears in the window. His brown eyes light up with wonder, and the biggest grin spreads across his rosy face. Soon the door bursts open, and a five or six year old boy runs out of the house as fast as he can in his heavy winter coat and snow pants. He grabs the tiny toboggan and charges toward the nearest hill, laughing and shouting in childish ecstasy all the way. All along the street, similar scenes are playing out as the neighbourhood wakes up, and kids rush from their houses to play in the freshly fallen snow. 

On the hydro wires sits the grand architect of this whimsical winter wonderland, a warm smile plastered on cold features; alabaster skin, gelid blue eyes, and hair that looks like a blizzard. He gives a wave to the boy with the red toboggan, and leaps off the wires and into the wind. His work here is finished, but there are several other towns he needs to visit before the day is done. The wind carries him over rooftops, over the tip-tops of trees that begin to glisten with snow, one by one as he passes by. He creates a flurry everywhere he goes. Frosty patterns appear on the windows; lakes freeze over so that you could skate on them. Children look up to the sky and rejoice, catching sweet snowflakes on their tongues. They clap and they cheer, and they shout the words " _snow day_!" and this is music to his ears. He sees them having snowball fights, building snowmen, skating on ponds. He sees the joy in their little faces, and he thinks there could be a no more beautiful sight in the heavens or the earth than a child's smile. A child, with a pure heart and soul, not yet corrupted by the evils of the earth. A child, who sees the world the way it was meant to be seen. A child, who knows so little about life, and yet a grown man or woman could learn so much from them. Ever since he can remember, he's always loved the children. And that's why he does what he does. He's Jack Frost, bringer of snow and ice, and wintertime fun. His entire existence is dedicated to bringing kids happiness; making them smile in the coldest season of all. Where adults curse the frozen water he creates for dread of shovelling or fear for their morning commute, kids embrace it and celebrate it, as if to them it has magical, _fun-inducing qualities_... Which it does, but they don't know it. 

He is unlike the other eternal spirits of the universe. Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, the Sandman... they're all different, in the sense that people know they exist. Their powers are well-published, and they are famous for what they do, where he is not.   
Sometimes he thinks this is for the best, as if people knew it may spoil it; put an end to the infinite mystery of what makes snow so alluring. On the other hand, he wishes they did know. He's never been seen by a human in the three hundred years he's roamed the earth. He works hard every day to do his job; fulfil the purpose that the moon assigned him with. He does it without tire, because he loves to see the children. But they still don't know that the fun they have in the winter season is entirely thanks to him. They don't even know he exists. 

Is it selfish to want just a bit of recognition? Is it too much to ask for _just one person_ to believe in him? Jack Frost is just a myth, they say. An expression to scare kids into putting on hats and scarves, so that "Jack Frost doesn't nip at your nose." He couldn't nip a nose even if he wanted to! The humans go right through him. He's utterly invisible to them. He's a ghost... They can't feel him, only the cold he stirs up when he passes by. They can't hear him, only the wind that brings him to them, and they can't see him, or anything except the snow he creates with his frosty magic. And yet, he can still see them. He can see them, and hear them, and experience them playing in his snow. He watches them, and he can _feel_ the warmth and the love that radiates from their innocent hearts, and he loves them back. But they don't know it. They don't know it!

At the end of his day he tells the wind to take him home, but he doesn't have one. His home is wherever he feels like staying for the night — whatever booming city or sleepy town seems welcoming to him at the time. He walks through the snow in his hometown-for-the-night, and listens to it crunch beneath his bare feet. In the air is the fresh scent of the crisp cold — a scent that seems to follow him everywhere he goes. The atmosphere is one of cheeriness, excitement, glee — an atmosphere that also seems to go hand in hand with his presence. But he doesn't feel these emotions in his heart tonight. All he can do is wonder, wonder why he's even here. He thinks he knows his purpose, but sometimes he's just not sure. He uses the powers the moon gave him for the good of children around the world. But still no one believes in him, and it's eating away at his soul, if the ghost of a human being he is even has one... 

He's Jack Frost. He makes it snow. He makes it so that kids can play in it, and then he watches them as they have their fun. He watches, and he wishes he could join them, but for three hundred years he has never been able to, and perhaps he never will. Because nobody knows he exists.


End file.
